


Keep Me Warm

by skywalkerlesbian



Category: Midnight Cowboy (1969)
Genre: Canon-Typical Homophobia, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Huddling For Warmth, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkerlesbian/pseuds/skywalkerlesbian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cold winter helps Joe and Rizzo get closer to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is another huddling for warmth fic! Before you read it, please understand that English isn't my first language. I hope I did good.

“Shee-it, Ratso! Dinner ain't so bad tonight, ain't it?”  
  
A small smile flashes through Rizzo's sweaty face. “Don't have many ingredients to work with, this crap better be good after I've done it a thousand times.”  
  
Joe smiles at him. The food is actually just as bad as usual, but Joe has got used to the taste. Rizzo doesn't eat much and most of what he cooks is for Joe, which he suspects is not helping his already bad health. “You ain't eating nothing?”, he asks. The small man shrugs, sitting down on the other chair and putting a cigarette on his mouth.  
  
Joe shakes his head. “Smoking ain't filling your belly, it ain't filling your belly. Making you sicker, that's what it does.” Upon Rizzo acting like he's not listening to his words, Joe gets up and removes the fag from his mouth.  
  
“Hey, what did you do that for? What did I ever do to you, cowboy?” says Rizzo, his voice hurt before starting to cough again.  
  
“Imma make you eat something if that's the last damn thing I do.”  
  
Rizzo's lips start forming a weak “what?” while Joe moves his chair next to him. He then takes his half-eaten dinner and the fork he was using and gestures them towards Rizzo. “C'mon, eat”, he says.  
  
Rizzo shakes his head, mouth firmly closed. “Not hungry. You need it more than I do, you need to be healthy for what you do. No respectable lady wants an ill-looking cowboy in his bed.”  
  
Joe takes some of the food with the fork and moves it close to Rizzo's mouth. He draws his head back. “My manager ain't living on goddamn coconut milk alone. Don't act like a kid on me, shee-it.”  
  
Rizzo is still shaking his head, but he meets Joe's eyes and sees the man's determination on his task. Reluctantly, he slightly opens his mouth. The fork abruptly enters his lips and he struggles not to choke. Under Joe's hard eyes, he manages to swallow the food.  
  
Joe's smile is as bright as Florida's sun. “Hey, you did it, boy! It ain't so bad, ain't it? C'mon, eat the rest of it,” he says, gesturing with his head.  
  
Rizzo can't help but smile a bit. “You're a dumb cowboy, forcing food like this on a cripple.”  
  
Joe stares at Rizzo while he finishes the dinner, making him nervous without being conscious of it. Rizzo starts coughing violently on the last bite, startling Joe on his chair. He looks at Rizzo with a worried look on his face until the coughing finally stops. “You okay?” he asks.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay, I'm okay,” Rizzo answers, his voice still sounding weird because of the cough.  
  
Joe stays silent for a moment, examining Rizzo's face with a look his friend can't identify. The moment seems to last for an eternity until Joe finally moves his thumb towards Rizzo's bottom lip.  
  
Rizzo jumps back on his chair. “Wha-what are you doing?” he asks, his eyes wide open.  
  
Joe frowns. “Cleaning your mess of a face's what I'm doing, you got some food on your lip from all that coughing.” He finishes his action under Rizzo's eyes, still in panic. “Shee-it, Ratso, what did you think I was doing? Gonna hurt you or something?”  
  
Rizzo's eyes look into Joe's, but soon he averts his gaze, looking for his cigarette. “Rico. In my goddamn place, the name's Rico.” Rizzo gets up, finally putting the fag between his lips again, and lights it with a match. He turns his back to Joe, still speaking under his breath. “Dumb cowboy can't even remember my name.”  
  
  
                                                                                                                        *  
  
  
Winter nights feel even colder in the absence of Joe's radio. Silence sits heavy on the men's bones, only interrupted by Rizzo's coughing. Joe is becoming increasingly worried about his health. The cold season could make things way worse and he knows it. He stops singing a cheerful tune —his voice was better than complete silence, he has decided— and turns to Rizzo, whose face is dimly lit with the candle.  
  
“Hey, Ratso?” His friend shifts in his bed to look at him, waiting. “It's damn cold, ain't it?”  
  
Rizzo shakes his head. “You just figured that out?”  
  
Joe knows he just said something stupid, but he thought it a good way of approaching the subject. “Course not. Just asking.” Rizzo makes a humming sound in response.  
  
“Ratso?” Rizzo looks at Joe again, the flame drawing strange-looking shapes on his face.  
  
“What now?” he asks, sounding annoyed.  
  
Joe speaks after a moment of silence. “You wanna, uh, come here? For warmth.”  
  
Rizzo's eyes glimmer with panic —and something else, which Joe cannot identify—, but he doesn't answer quickly. “Get into your bed?” he finally says, words falling hesitantly from his quivering lips, “that what you mean?”  
  
Joe raises his eyebrows and stares at him, waiting for an answer. Suddenly, Rizzo bursts out laughing. “Christ, you sure are spending too much time in 42nd street...”  
  
Something changes in Joe's expression. His eyes show the fury his body is restraining. “If you rather die frozen than move your skinny butt here...” he mumbles angrily, turning his back on Rizzo.  
  
“Hey, c'mon, don't get sore.” Rizzo's voice sounds softer than before. He isn't laughing anymore. “Look, I'm sorry. It's very cold here.” He hesitates again, but slowly gets up from the bed when he sees Joe's not saying anything.  
  
Joe listens to Rizzo's steps approaching his bed, but still doesn't want to face him. After a moment, he feels a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“C'mon, Joe,” Rizzo pleads, shaking Joe's shoulder.  
  
A soft laugh comes from Joe's throat, his body shaking slightly under Rizzo's hand. He shifts in the bed to look at him, a silly smile on his face. “You should listen to yourself pleading like a dog on the street, almost makes me sad to hear you.” Joe watches Rizzo's face, but the candle is behind his back and he can't distinguish his expression. “C'mere.” Rizzo doesn't move. Joe pulls down one of the blankets, tapping the small space next to him with one hand.  
  
Rizzo finally makes an effort to sit down, and painfully lays down next to Joe. He feels Joe's hand drawing up the covers again, and the pleasant warmth of his body next to him definitely feels better than what his bed can offer.  
  
“There. Ain't it better like this? Now we sleep.” Joe's voice feels close to Rizzo's neck.  
  
Joe soon falls asleep with a smile on his face, still thinking of how Rizzo's voice sounded when he was pleading. Rizzo takes longer to fall asleep, still shivering for a while until the warmth settles on him. He isn't sure if the cold's the reason for the slight shaking of his body that stays with him until he finally manages to sleep.

  
  
                                                                                                                        *  
  
  
After every long winter day —stealing food, looking for clients wherever they could—, Joe and Rizzo always go to bed together. Rizzo wouldn't admit it, but he's always patiently waiting for that moment of the day to arrive. Joe's body cannot replace the heat, but Rizzo almost feels like it does.  
  
One day, when he is almost falling asleep, eyes closed already, Rizzo feels Joe's arm closing around his chest.  
  
“Hey now, Joe. What are you doing?”  
  
The arm doesn't move an inch.  
  
“Is it bothering you or something?”  
  
Rizzo swallows before replying, his throat suddenly dry.  
  
“Didn't say that.”  
  
Joe doesn't say anything else. Rizzo is suddenly too aware of his body, of Joe's body, and of the closeness of both in the small bed. In the darkness, he wonders if Joe is already asleep. As time passes, he finds the courage to move one of his hands, brushing against Joe's arm, and lets it stay there.  
  
He can't be sure of it, but he could swear he feels Joe's smile on his neck before finally falling asleep.  
  
Some days afterwards, Rizzo's cough is clearly getting worse. Joe figures he can do something for him this time, and after donating blood he takes him somewhere to eat a hot dinner. The place is cheap but the food isn't so bad.  
  
Rizzo realizes Joe is smiling at him.  
  
“What? Got something on my face?” Rizzo says, moving some locks of hair from his forehead with his fingers.  
  
“Just happy to see you eating like that. That's gotta be good to you.”  
  
Rizzo shakes his head, but a small smile lingers in his face.  
  
“Don't worry that much about me, I'm not dying. At least I'm not thinking of doing it soon,” says Rizzo, before eating some more of the hot soup in front of him.  
  
“'Course you ain't dying on me. I wouldn't let you, I wouldn't.”  
  
Joe's voice suddenly sounds very serious. Rizzo doesn't say anything else and just finishes eating his food, the gravity of the situation too heavy for them to talk about it.  
  
  
                                                                                                                        *  
  
  
The cold seems to have decided to stay. Most of their food is frozen, and cooking is almost impossible now. Joe's radio is more helpful than it has ever been: they turn it on and dance to whatever music is playing. It's ridiculous, but at least they don't feel so cold when they are dancing.  
  
After a catchy tune for an orange juice commercial finishes playing, a masculine voice announces the next song they are going to put. Joe has never heard the name of the singer before. A slow, glamorous voice starts singing. Ratso stops dancing for a moment.  
  
“Can't dance to something like that. So slow I bet I'd froze my ass by moving to it.” He tries to dance as slow as he can for a moment, making Joe laugh.  
  
“This ain't for dancing alone, boy. 'Course it don't make sense to dance to this alone.”  
  
Ratso considers the implications of what Joe has just said for a moment, looking for an answer in the way he looks at him. Finally, he gives up, lightning a cigarette before sitting down in the chair.  
  
Joe approaches him, the music still playing.  
  
“Don't you wanna test my moves, Ratso?” he asks, a hand on his stomach and the other one up in the air, dancing with a ridiculous grin on his face.  
  
Rizzo eyes him. He shakes his head, but he has already decided. He gets up and steps towards him, hesitating. The bum leg will probably be a handicap here.  
  
“This is stupid,” he says, while Joe takes his hand and puts the other one on his back. The height difference is funny, being so close. Joe starts dancing really slow, but Rizzo is clumsy trying to follow him, his leg not helping.  
  
“Really, Joe, this is damn stupid,” Rizzo repeats, ashamed of the sad spectacle he must be for him.  
  
Joe stops for a moment to think, and finally he sees a solution. He puts Rizzo's feet on his, his weight light enough on him to move.  
  
Rizzo isn't sure how to feel about this. “Ah, c'mon...”  
  
Unfortunately, the song doesn't last much longer. Joe stops, allowing Rizzo to step down from his feet. He walks to the chair again with a certain difficulty, and strives towards his pocket to take a cigarette.  
  
“What are you staring at?”  
  
“Oh, nothing, nothing. Keep lightning your goddamn fags one after the other...”  
  
  
                                                                                                                        *  
  
  
“Well?”  
  
“Well what?”  
  
“You ain't coming?”  
  
Rizzo looks at Joe laying on his bed, inviting him to join. A tiny smile appears on his face.  
  
“Yeah, I just, ah... Okay.” He was gesturing for a cigarette, but stops mid-action and walks to the bed.  
  
They shift in the mattress until they both find a comfortable position. Rizzo is facing the wall, looking at one of his dreamy Florida posters. Thinking.  
  
“Miami Beach's the place. I'm telling you, Joe. You'd love it there, I'm sure.”  
  
“Yeah, Ratso, you'll go there someday,” he says, laying behind Rizzo. He considers it for a moment, and adds “we'll go there.”  
  
Rizzo's head shifts to look at Joe now, a renewed feeling of hope building in his chest.  
  
“You could score easily with all those ladies. Even a cowboy like you could score there.”  
  
Joe hums, an image forming in his mind of a future that could make him happy. Lately, he has started sharing Rizzo's dream, sometimes. The cold is too persistent to resist the fantasy of a warm place where the sun shines and opportunities flourish. His eyes are looking at the poster now. Dreamily, he puts an arm around Rizzo's chest, his head resting on his shoulder.  
  
“Hey, ladies,” he says, using his most charming voice, “hope y'all ready for a cowboy, cause here comes one helluva one.”  
  
Rizzo laughs, his chest vibrating against Joe's hand. Suddenly, Rizzo starts coughing, his sickness interrupting a moment once again. Joe waits, worried, and separates a bit from him, allowing him movement on the mattress.  
  
“You okay there?”  
  
The pain recedes after some seconds of enduring, until Rizzo can finally speak. “Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine.” Joe starts moving again to be closer to him. “You know, you might get real sick if you sleep so close to me all the time. Just a warning. You don't want both of us to be sick, do you?”  
  
“I ain't going to get sick from that.”  
  
“Okay. That sounds smart. Very responsible not to give a crap about your own health. Terrific, Joe.”  
  
“You gonna talk to me about health?”  
  
Rizzo shifts in the bed to look at Joe, hurt by his words.  
  
“Maybe I can talk about it better than you because I know what it's like, and I don't want it for you.”  
  
His eyes show honest concern. Joe frowns.  
  
“Okay, okay, Ratso. I'm truly sorry, I am. But you gotta admit I've been living here for months already and sleeping with you for weeks and I ain't even a bit sick. Don't guess it's gonna happen now.”  
  
Rizzo considers his words, and finally softens his gaze.  
  
“Fine. But if you need some medicine I ain't stealing it for you.” He's lying. He would do it if Joe needed it.  
  
“Won't need it anyway.”  
  
Rizzo groans, but doesn't add anything else to the conversation. Joe draws him closer again, this time being face to face, and carefully tucks the blankets around him. For a moment Rizzo stays with his eyes closed, trying to fall asleep. He can't, and his eyes dart to Joe's face, expecting to find him asleep. He isn't. Joe is looking back at him, and starts lightly rubbing Rizzo's shoulders to keep him warm. His hands move to Rizzo's face, and carefully caress his sweaty skin and move the greasy locks of hair that are in the way. He's feverish. Joe cleans his dirty hands on his own shirt. Rizzo's face looks slightly better now.  
  
“Boy, did you take your medicine tonight? You're sweating all over the place.”  
  
“You saw me take it, I did.”  
  
Joe stares at him for a moment, an uneasy look on his face.  
  
“Sometimes you worry me too much, Ratso.”  
  
He holds him close to his chest now, as if Rizzo could disappear from his side at any moment. Rizzo hesitates for a few seconds but soon his arm is firmly gripping Joe's back. He looks back at him, and suddenly Joe is close, too close to his face, his lips on his. He forgets what it was like to breathe or cough or how the pain on his chest felt.  
  
“Well, if I don't get sick from that...” says Joe, his face finally breaking contact with Rizzo's.  
  
Rizzo is staring at him. He looks scared, as if he were expecting Joe to be mad at him.  
  
“I, uh...” he mumbles. “Wh-what did you do that for, huh? Are you... laughing at me or what?”  
  
“What? I ain't laughing,” replies Joe, frowning.  
  
They remain looking at each other in silence, Rizzo studying the situation. He starts moving closer again quite slowly, prepared to retreat, but Joe doesn't stop him. He kisses Joe, and this time it lasts longer.  
  
“You know this doesn't mean we are faggots, right? Just to make that clear,” says Rizzo, eyes nervously looking up at Joe.  
  
“Yeah, I know.” He chuckles. “I guess. Well, I know it feels good.”  
  
Rizzo's face finally relaxes a bit, and he manages to mumble a weak “yeah” before Joe kisses him again. They have to stop a few times because Rizzo needs to cough.  
  
“Maybe I can kiss that cold outta you,” Joe said, smiling at his own idea.  
  
They fall asleep in each other's arms, and this time when Rizzo dreams of Florida the sun is brighter than it has ever been before.


End file.
